In the Grip of the Solstice
by Hades Lord of the Dead
Summary: The December Calendar Challenge 2011. HAPPY 2012 EVERYBODY! B-D
1. 1st December

_ This is the response to the 1__st__ of December prompt from Spockologist. The prompt was: "Write about a Christmas Watson spent away from home." My response is a 221B.  
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_Comments, corrections and criticism are all welcome. _

Blow

In what could only be described as the middle of nowhere, there stood a cottage. Perched on a hilltop and surrounded by woodland, it may once have been a picturesque location. But the shadowy trees had been stripped of their leaves months ago, and the wind was blowing ferociously, stirring up their creaking branches, which swayed eerily to and fro.

Inside the cottage, the inhabitant listened to the moaning of the wind. The floor was cold beneath his back, but the whisky clutched in his trembling hand had already made him numb.

He wouldn't have minded the temperature much anyway. All he wished for this Christmas was his life back – along with his child, wife and best friend.

The house had seemed so… _empty_. The absence of Mary's company was suffocating. He wasn't brave enough to spend Christmas with the ghosts of his home – so he had left and come here instead. He had seen the pitying looks that were sent his way at this decision, but he paid them no heed.

He didn't really care what people felt for him any more. He was past crying. He was past caring. He took another swig of the whisky, and stared at the floor. Eventually his eyes slid closed and his body sank to the floor.

Outside, the wind continued to blow.


	2. 2nd December

_In response to Deb Zorski's prompt for the 2__nd__ of December – Bright._

Bright

"So… what do you think?"

"I… It's…"

"_Yes..?_"

_ "_Well really Watson! This is hardly a fair representation!_"_

Watson sighed. "How so? I described in meticulous detail every process of your deductions!"

"I know but…" Watson was treated to the rare sight of Holmes struggling for words. When he did speak, it was in an oddly strangled voice, "I wasn't talking about the representation of me."

"Oh." Watson's brow furrowed in confusion. "But then, what-?"

"You!" Holmes finally exploded. He picked up the manuscript and gestured at it furiously. "In each and every one of your stories you come off as a… well a buffoon! No, worse – a _Scotland Yarder!_"

"I don't see why it bothers you so much," Watson responded, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Because you are not a buffoon! You are a Doctor, you _served in Maiwand._ I don't see why you dim yourself down to the level of… of _this._" He thrust the manuscript back onto Watson's desk and sat down in disgust.

Watson, looking thoughtful, neatened the pages of his work so that they would fit into an envelope for his publishers and said, with a proper smile this time, "I suppose I find it difficult to make anyone seem bright when put next to Sherlock Holmes."


	3. 3rd December

_A response to my brother, Poseidon – God of the Seas's prompt for the 3__rd__ December which was "Holmes and Watson investigate the mysterious death of a bare knuckle boxer."_

_My mysterious is probably different to the one he was thinking of. Ah well._

_As always comments not only welcome, but embraced and loved._

"-the missing teeth, the bruises on his face and the scars on his hands are all clear indications that this man was a frequent participant in-"

"Bare knuckle boxing."

Lestrade looked at Watson, impressed.

"Precisely Watson."

He nodded and Holmes continued his list of deductions as though nothing had happened. He didn't enquire as to how his friend had made the connection – he had spotted long ago the faint scars which peppered the Doctor's own, now subconsciously clenched, hands.

Watson remained silent as Holmes deduced. His smile, and the memories stirring behind his eyes, told more than words ever could.


	4. 4th December

_Response to a prompt from Agatha Doyle – "Holmes invents his own word (and really annoys Watson with it)."_

_I hope this was okay._

_Thank you anonymous, my anonymous reviewer, for reviewing.  
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Holmesian

"Watson – why do you insist on writing these florid memoirs?"

"Enjoyment. Money. To show the public that for many of the cases solved by the Yard, the credit should in fact go to you. And of course, it's nice to think that I've made something which might last beyond the two of us… It's- what? What's so funny?"

"I- I'm sorry Watson but… _Really? _Last beyond us? You think that decades from now people will be reading _your _romanticised accounts of my cases?"

"Perhaps! You never know Hol- _stop laughing!_"

"Oh yes Watson – I'm sure you'll be there, with all of the greats!"

"Holmes don't-"

"There won't be Shakespearians any more – but Holmesians!"

"… Holmesians? What on earth-?"

"Of or relating to Sherlock Holmes! Your books will be so famous that there will be millions studying them..! Right alongside Shakespeare… Ha ha ha!"

"Shut up. And stop laughing. Or the next story I send to the Strand will be "The Adventure of the Bed Wetting Detective". That'll give a lot for any of your so called "Holmesians" to write about, even in years to come."


	5. 5th December

_A response to Deb Zorski's prompt – "Ice". Comments, corrections and criticisms all welcome. _

Ice

I have experienced many strange sensations in my time, but possibly the most peculiar is that of using a cane on ice.

It wasn't the best idea to come out here – cold weather always affects my old wounds – but the pleading look in the Irregulars' eyes is something few can resist. One of those few is Holmes. He sits inside, watching and probably laughing, as I venture slowly out. I know what is coming, but I cannot deny them their holiday fun.

_WHOOMP! _Three snowballs hit me at once and I am forced down into the powder beneath me. I hear crunching footsteps behind me and turn, another snowball hitting me in the back of the head.

"Holmes," I say a rueful grin on my face. He stares down at where I sit, covered in white. He looks a little shocked. I realise he must have fairly fled down the stairs to have gotten here so quickly. "Come to enjoy the view?"

"Er…" he hesitates before offering his arm. I take it and he helps me to my feet, ducking as another snowball comes flying our way. "I thought you could use some help."

I thank him and we duck behind a cab, assembling our weapons. The rest of the day is spent in snowy warfare; but I notice that he is careful to grip my arm as we hurry from one place to the next, lest I fall on the slippery ice.


	6. 6th December

_In response to Poseidon – God of the Seas's prompt - Lestrade always feels lonely around Christmas. So he pays a visit to his good friend, Mycroft Holmes._

_I found this very difficult to write._

_Thanks to all of my readers. _

The Whale Within

Inspector Lestrade could easily be described as a solitary man. He spent much of his time without company; working on cases during the day, and heading home, by himself, each night. This was the way he preferred it.

But even Lestrade felt the tug of loneliness around Christmastime. The longing for something more than his small, lonely house and the miniature Christmas feast he would prepare himself each year. Holmes and Watson had each others' companionship, not to mention Mrs Hudson's, to share on Christmas day. Gregson had his wife. But Lestrade had nothing. When he bumped into Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes's older brother, he spotted something which he knew would cheer him up.

_This year, _he promised himself, noting the elder Holmes's address, _this year I will not let myself become depressed. _

No doubt, dear reader, this is the point at which you expect Lestrade and Mycroft to become the greatest of friends, who will spend Christmas together, just like Holmes and Watson. This, however, was not what happened.

In fact that Christmas, Lestrade went to Mycroft's address. He peered through the window. And he laughed.

He may be a lonely man, who was spending Christmas Eve spying on another. But at least he wasn't like _that _lazy whale inside – gorging himself on turkey with hands like flippers.


	7. 7th December

_In response to Agatha Doyle's prompt - Holmes or Watson reads the other's diary._

Simple

Christmas at Baker Street was always a tricky affair. Trying to keep a secret from the world's only consulting detective was difficult – when the secret had anything to do with Christmas presents it proved almost impossible. This year, however, I was determined.

It was an afternoon in September and I sat at my desk, pretending to write, but in fact watching Holmes covertly. He reclined languidly in his armchair, puffing at his pipe. I gathered my nerve and stood, heading for the door. As my fingers closed around the doorknob, my heart leapt in triumph.

"Do be sure to get the cheaper pair of cufflinks won't you Watson?" I froze, hand still on the handle. _How on earth..?_ "I'll most likely lose them anyway."

After a brief pause, I spoke, "E- excuse me?"

"The cufflinks you're off to collect – go for the cheaper pair."

For a second I was tempted to be angry – but then I felt the tension slip from my shoulders, and my hand fell back to my side. I turned around. Holmes had picked up a newspaper and his eyes flicked over the blocks of text, managing to look, to me at least, irritatingly smug.

"How did you figure it out then?" I asked, exasperated. "No doubt you noticed a different type of mud on my shoes, which could only be found by the shop I ordered them from, or something similar?"

"No," Holmes replied, still intent on the paper. "Nothing quite nearly so complicated as that."

"Yes, well, everything _seems _easy when you explain it," I grumbled. "How _did _you do it then?"

"Simple," he turned another page, and this time I could definitely see the corners of his lips tugging upwards. "I read your diary."


	8. 8th December

_Response to MyelleWhite's prompt – Board Game_

_This is a drabble._

Checkmate

One wrong move and it was all over. Holmes would have been defeated. I trusted in both him and his abilities implicitly; but this was a battle of wits in which I was sure he would not succeed. The competition was just too great.

Mycroft Holmes sat across from his brother, who leant over a table, eyes flicking to and fro; considering his options. Mycroft smiled.

"Do you confess yourself beaten, brother mine?"

Holmes glanced up, irritated. "I just need time to think." He moved his knight forward.

"Of course," Mycroft replied, moving his own knight and looking smug. "Checkmate."


	9. 9th December

_In response to Catherine Spark's prompt; "Holmes and Watson go on a walk somewhere obscure."_

_I apologise for the length. Or lack of, anyway._

_To anony9: Thanks again! *Cyber hug*  
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"Lovely day."

"Indeed."

"Sun shining."

"Hm."

"Birds singing."

"Whistling, certainly."

"And not a cloud in the sky."

"None."

"Bored?"

"Yes. You?"

"Immensely so."

"…Shall we head back to Baker Street?"

"Yes, let's."


	10. 10th December

_In response to Agatha Doyle's prompt - Write about the arrival of Watson's first child *grabs box of tissues*_

_Thank you to all of my reviewers._

_This is a very depressing drabble…_

A High Price

Life is a fragile thing. All too often cut short. And Mary's life was cut short so suddenly…. A tear rolls down my cheek. The baby I am holding gurgles happily, unknowing. She, for it is a she, reaches out her tiny hand towards me. I force myself to smile.

It's amazing to think that I helped make this perfect creature. I can see none of myself in her, but this is probably a good thing. Her wide eyes are blue – Mary's eyes.

The warmth of her body against mine is a great comfort. It came at a high price.


	11. 11th December

_Response to MyelleWhite's prompt - "I wish that never happened"_

_I am hoping to continue this at some point. But when it reached the natural stopping point for a certain section, I realised it was a 221B. The rest will hopefully be put up in a different story some time…._

Never - Prologue

"So… what do you think? Will you do it?"

"You know how I view the softer emotions, Watson," I said, with a hint of a sneer. "Or perhaps your _fiancé-_" a definite sneer this time "-has made you forget?"

Watson sighed heavily. "I know Holmes. I just thought that… well…" he cleared his throat and stood up from his (no, not his, not any more) armchair. "It doesn't matter. I'm sure I can find a best man somewhere. Will you be attending the wedding at all?"

I took a long puff of my pipe before answering. "No."

He nodded once and left. I could tell I had angered him and this sent a surge of satisfaction rushing through me. Let him suffer. It wasn't my fault he was trading a life of adventure in for one of matrimony. That was his decision.

All of the cases… wasted. There was no point to them. Within a few weeks of married life he would have forgotten everything I had taught him – forgotten me.

And I would forget too – forget the cases, forget _him._ All of the time spent together was pointless…. And it made me furious to think that I'd thrown away so much time.

"I wish that _never _happened!" I hissed. Throwing my pipe to the table I strode to my bedroom.


	12. 12th December

_In response to sagredo's prompt - Write about a distant relative, of either Holmes or Watson, dropping in at 221B unexpectedly during the holidays. Who is this relative? Why have they come? What happens?_

_I found this quite tricky to write. _

_Thanks lovely reviewers!_

It was early December, and I was grateful of the fire which blazed merrily in the grate. Holmes was sprawled, limp and unresponsive, across the sofa. There had been an absence of cases recently and I knew that soon he would turn to the cocaine.

_Knock, knock, knock! _I sat up straight in my armchair. _Could it be..?_

"A client?" I enquired. Holmes stretched lethargically.

"We shall se-"

"Oh, Sherlock!" a trilling voice interrupted from outside. Holmes froze. "Anyone hooome?"

"A friend of yours, "_Sherlock"?_" I teased and stood to look outside. As I made to lean out of the window Holmes seized my arm, a desperate light entering his eyes.

"For the sake of all that is right with this world Watson," he begged. "_Don't _let her in!"

"But… why?" I asked, completely dumbfounded. Who on earth could inspire such terror in him?

Downstairs Mrs Hudson could be heard, "Oh yes, go right on up. He's in the living room with the Doctor."

Holmes gulped."Oh shi-!"

"Sherlock!"

The door flew open and standing on the threshold of the living room was a, very old, very _loud _woman. She stepped inside. "Sherlock, it simply has been _too _long!" she crooned, reaching out a hand and pinching his cheek with a long, brittle fingernail. I stifled a grin at my friend's expense.

Holmes grimaced. "Doctor, this is my er… my great aunt, Miss-"

"Oh, a _Doctor!_" she screeched. I had the urge to take a step back as she made toward me, but resisted it. I did wince however, at her loud words. "My name is Miss Florence Holmes – but you can call me Florence." She gave a wink and grasped my battle scarred hand in her own, callused one. "You would be Sherlock's roommate I suppose?"

"Y- Yes," I replied, trying in vain to extract my hand from hers. She was surprisingly strong for such an old woman. "Er, I don't suppose you'd mind-?"

"Sherlock!" she cut across me. "What are you grinning about?"

Holmes was indeed grinning; or rather, smirking. The smirk slid off his face, however, when Florence turned toward him, dropping my hand in the process. I rubbed at the indentations her nails had left in my skin.

"Oh, er… nothing. Why are you here again Florence?"

Florence smiled in what she clearly thought was a sweet manner. Her lips took on the appearance of a wrinkled prune. "Come now Sherlock... I don't need an _excuse _to visit my nephew now do I? Especially not when he shares rooms with such a… _handsome _doctor." Inwardly I cringed. "I bought your Christmas present today and I just wanted to check that you haven't forgotten about me!"

"I wish," Holmes murmured quietly, but Florence didn't notice. She had focussed her attentions back on me.

"Now then – I've told you my name, but I don't believe that you've yet done me the honour!" she let out a jarring laugh and both Holmes and I winced. "What is _your _name Doctor?"

The last thing in the world that I wished to do was tell this irritating woman my name. Yet I could see no way around it. "John-"

"Vernet," Holmes interceded. "Florence this is Doctor John Vernet."

Florence turned around and I raised an eyebrow questioningly behind her back. Holmes gave an almost imperceptible wink.

"Vernet?" she echoed. "Surely not-?"

"That's right. Your nephew on the other side. My cousin."

"Oh…" she sighed, disappointed. "What a shame. I thought I would have met you… Well," she cleared her throat. "I have an appointment to keep. Sherlock I'll drop by on Christmas to give you your present." With that she left, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.

"Why-?" I began, but stopped. "Just… why?"

"Aunt Florence has something of a liking for… younger men," Holmes explained. "Unfortunately younger men don't have much of a liking for Aunt Florence."

"Ah. And erm… she's um, coming back at Christmas, is she?" I asked apprehensively.

"Oh no," Holmes responded cheerfully. "I've arranged that we will be detained by an important case."

We both shared a glance and erupted into laughter.


	13. 13th December

_In response to Agatha Doyle's prompt - Watson has a day of terrible bad luck._

I knew that Watson was in a foul mood from the moment he entered the front door. Once he had limped into the sitting room, I saw why.

"I doubt Mrs Hudson will appreciate you dripping all over her carpet," I remarked. He scowled and stormed upstairs, no doubt to change out of his soaking clothes. "What happened to your umbrella?"

"It broke," he called back from the other room. "I hope we're taking a cab."

"Luckily for you, we are," I replied. "Oh and don't bother bringing your revolver; I doubt we'll need it."

Several hours later I was beginning to regret that statement.

"Next time," Watson grunted. "I am bringing my revolver."

"Good plan," I answered. "Is there anything I can do?"

Watson grimaced painfully and shook his head. I may not have been a medical man, but even I could tell that when a man's arm cracked like that, something was wrong. It was just as well Scotland Yard had arrived when they had. Late as usual.

The cab we were in rolled along at a sedate pace, each tiny bump no doubt sending a jolt of pain through Watson's broken arm.

"Bad luck it wasn't your left arm they broke," I commented. "Otherwise you could have treated yourself."

"Yes," Watson replied through gritted teeth. "Very bad."


	14. 14th December

_A response to Catherine Spark's prompt - A story that forms an acrostic._

**FRIEND**

**F**aithful and

**R**eliable,

**I**n the face of danger.

**E**ver trusting,

**N**ever trusted;

**D**eceit is not his strong suit.


	15. 15th December

_In response to sagredo's prompt - Mrs. Hudson has fallen ill and is not up to preparing Christmas dinner. She feels horrible about this. Holmes and Watson thus make it their mission to procure Christmas dinner for her themselves. Does this end in success or disaster?_

_ As always, reviews are love._

"It looks to be a bad case of the flu Mrs Hudson. I'm sorry to say that you'll be in bed over Christmas."

"But- but I can't be! I need to-"

"Lie _down _Mrs Hudson! Holmes and I will be more than happy to see to your needs over the holidays."

"Thank you Doctor, but there's so much; the presents, the dinner... I can't let you-"

"Presents are the least important thing at Christmas Mrs Hudson. As to the dinner, I'm sure that between us both we shall be able to whip up something in the kitchen. Just focus on getting better."

"But I-"

"Please, Mrs Hudson?"

"Well- well alright then... I do feel a little... tired..."

"Sleep well Mrs Hudson."

* * *

><p>"I've got the turkey Watson. Now what do we do?"<p>

"Er- I think we need to stuff it."

"Oh. What with?"

"Erm... stuffing?"

"Oh! Yes, of course. Stuffing. And where do we get that from?"

"... a turkey?"

"I don't think we can deal with this. We need Mrs Hudson! We're lost without her!"

"No! Pull yourself together man! I promised that we would do everything for her so that she wouldn't have to Holmes – we need to figure this out for ourselves."

"You're right of course Watson. Come now, we should be able to figure this out – you're a doctor, I'm a detective... it can't be that hard! We just need to think who would know about Christmas dinner..."

"Hmm... Well, someone who likes cooking. Or food. Or both."

"Of course! I know! Quickly Watson – to the Diogenes Club!"

* * *

><p>"Thank goodness we found a cab."<p>

"Thank goodness Mycroft had a spare turkey!"

"Yes well that's my brother for you... Now hurry! We need to get this up to Mrs Hudson, as fast as possi-"

"Mr Holmes? Doctor Watson?"

"Oh... er hello, Mrs Hudson! What are you doing out of bed?"

"Well I'm- hold on; what are _you _doing with a turkey hidden behind your back?"

"Oh. Well we er... we just finished cooking it! Right Watson?"

"Wha-? Ow! Erm, yes. Just now. I'll go and er... serve it up..."

"Thank you both – that was delicious! You know, I did have my doubts... But I see now that they were all unfounded."

"Yes... well erm... it was certainly a _team effort..._ eh Watson?"

"Hmm..."

"This is so nice... perhaps you should make the Christmas dinner together every year?"

"NO!"


	16. 16th December

_In response to Aleine Skyfire's prompt - One of the characters — Sherlock, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, etc. — believes in Father Christmas._

_I hope you understand this drabble._

Meaningful Gifts

"Holmes," Watson enquired tentatively one Christmas Eve. "Why is it you don't visit your brother during the holiday season?"

"Christmas is Mycroft's busiest time of year."

"Oh..." Watson looked slightly puzzled. "But you still find time to exchange presents?"

"Certainly," Holmes replied. "Unfortunately after a batch of Mrs Hudson's mince pies, I find it difficult to think of what to give Mycroft."

Watson snorted. "So what do you give him?"

"This year; a razor for that ridiculous beard of his. Last year a rather handsome red... er suit. And the year before that I got him a reind- erm... raincoat."


	17. 17th December

_In response to Catherine Spark's prompt - Watson forbids Holmes from doing something, and the following consequences._

_ Warning: Innuendo laden drabble ahead._

Forbidden

"Holmes! I can't _believe _you just did that!"

"It's hardly my fault Watson!"

"I _told _you, I _specifically _told you _not _to interrupt! How did you even know where we were going?"

"It was simple. I saw that the boots you were wearing were-"

"I do not _care, _Holmes! How could you do this to me? And why didn't you knock, like a regular person!"

"Well how on earth was I supposed to know what you would be doing in there?"

"For God's sake man! What did you _think_ we would be doing on the first night of our honeymoon?"


	18. 18th December

_In response to Scarper Gallywest's prompt - Before Montague Street, there was the flat on Fleet Street…and Holmes's first living quarters were something of a mess…_

_Thank you for reading!_

10 Unfortunate Things Which Happen to Mycroft in Sherlock's Lodgings in Fleet Street

1. Trips over a desk (which is actually a bookcase).

2. Bangs his head on lamp (which is actually a test tube stuck to the wall).

3. Examines an artistic looking painting on the wall (which is actually just a stain on the wall).

4. Drinks a cup of tea (which is actually a cup of blood).

5. Eats food right from a cooking pot (which is actually a chamber pot).

6. Decides to see what all the fuss is about, and indulges in some of Sherlock's cocaine (which is actually flour).

7. Looks through the telescope at the window (which is actually a kaleidoscope at a mirror)

8. Kicks a stuffed cat in frustration (which is actually a real cat).

9. Sits down on the sofa (which is actually a body).

10. Decides to buy Sherlock some new lodgings in Montague Street, just until Sherlock has enough money for his own, and exits through the front door (which is actually the door to the broom cupboard, in which Mycroft is stuck for several hours).


	19. 19th December

_Response to Sui Generis Paroxysm's prompt - Jean-Paul Sartre: "Hell is other people." _

Hell

Surrounded by so many faces; happy, sad and everything in between – but not one of them familiar. I cannot help but search the crowds around me, search for those I have come to know so well; Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Watson… None of them are present. In this sea of people, I am a solitary island.

I always thought I disliked people. I was wrong. It is not people I dislike, but all of these _other _people. Strangers.

Moriarty is dead and perhaps I had followed him into the tumultuous waters of Reichenbach. This aching loneliness could be nothing but hell.


	20. 20th December

_In response to mrspencil's prompt - __Holmes, Watson, and Mrs Hudson on a picnic._

_I spent a long time racking my brains for this one – so there isn't really much point to this story. Sorry about that. Ah well!_

Pointless Picnic

"Doctor Watson, we really should hurry," Mrs Hudson tugged nervously at my arm. "It looks as though it might rain…"

"Don't worry Mrs Hudson," I assured her. "I'm sure Holmes will be down-"

"Watson! I am in need of your assistance!"

"-momentarily. Er… we'll be down in a moment." Mrs Hudson frowned, but I was already climbing the stairs to the living room.

"Ah, Watson!"

"Holmes?" I entered the living room a little cautiously, Holmes not in my immediate vision. "Where are- oh."

He had emerged from behind the sofa. I sighed at his appearance.

"Holmes, you could at least _attempt _to make an effort! Mrs Hudson has really been looking forward to this."

"I _am _making an effort!" he responded in indignation. "For the past half an hour I have been, with _great effort, _attempting to find my other shoe!"

"Y- your shoe?" I echoed. "Holmes, can't you just find another pair..?"

"Certainly not! That completely destroys the point!"

"What point?"

"The point of searching for half an hour!" Holmes replied impatiently. "Have you seen it anywhere?"

"Holmes, _please,_" I pleaded. "Just take another pair!"

"Doctor Watson?" Mrs Hudson's voice floated up from below. "Are you ready yet?"

"_Please, Holmes,_" I pressed.

He sighed. "But Watson-" he began, but then broke off. He was looking out of the window, at the gathering storm clouds. "Fine. Let's go then. Get this out of the way."

As we stepped out of the front door, with a relieved Mrs Hudson in tow, I commented to him, "It's not as though we're subjecting you to any great terror Holmes. It's only a picnic!"

* * *

><p>"You know Watson that was better than I could have hoped."<p>

"Better?" I asked. "_Better _than you could have hoped? We were caught out in a _storm _Holmes!"

"Well, Mrs Hudson is happy," he replied vaguely. "Towel?"

I took the towel and set to work drying myself. "Yes… But you didn't seem to give that much thought before..?"

"Yes," Holmes responded with a grin, making his way swiftly to his chemistry table. "Now all I have to do is compare this mud sample to the one found on the-"

"Mud sample?" I repeated angrily. "Holmes!"

"I may as well have used the rain to my advantage Watson!" he defended himself. "Without it the picnic would have just been _boring…_"

I rolled my eyes and went to help Mrs Hudson unpack the, surely now soaked, picnic basket.


	21. 21st December

_In response to Agatha Doyle's prompt - __Holmes__ and Watson are desperately trying to find Christmas presents for each other._

_This one has a _little _more plot…_

All Knowing Advisor

It was Christmas Eve, and I was making preparations for Christmas dinner. It would be so nice to share Christmas with Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson; it was a long time since I had celebrated Christmas with anyone. My husband had passed away some time ago.

"Mrs Hudson," I turned from the goose I was plucking. Mr Holmes was perched nervously in the doorway to the kitchen, looking something like an overgrown eagle. "I, um… I need some help."

Puzzled, I asked, "Why are you whispering?"

His eyes darted nervously to the ceiling. "Doctor Watson is asleep at the moment, but erm… I need your advice on something."

"Yes..?" I was still completely clueless.

"Well I- I'm not sure what to get him for er… for Christmas," he mumbled. I snorted and he quickly added, "Not through lack of trying I assure you! It's just that we've been so embroiled on this case that I've barely had a moment, both free and alone, to buy one."

"I see…." I struggled to contain a chuckle. "Why don't you buy him some new writing material?"

He nodded. "I had thought something of that sort… are you sure he will be happy with that?"

"I'm sure he'll be happy to receive anything. You weren't the only one working on that case after all."

"… what do you mean?"

"Well," I responded with a grin, turning back to the goose. "He came in here early this morning, with exactly the same problem."

There was a brief silence from behind me. "And he tasked you with retrieving a present for me?"

"No," I said, now going to the cupboard for a baking tray. "He went to retrieve one himself."

"But how- oh," realisation dawned. "He's… not asleep, is he?"

"No – Toby is though. Upstairs in the Doctor's bed."

"Why that crafty – I thought there was something odd about his breathing!"

I listened as Mr Holmes left, the door slamming behind him. Shaking my head and laughing, I briefly abandoned the Christmas dinner, to place my own presents for the both of them under the tree.


	22. 22nd December

_In response to mrspencil's prompt - __a__ drabble on "regret"._

_Another depressing drabble…_

Regret

_Mary Morstan_

_Loving wife and mother_

"I never wanted this to happen. At first I didn't like you, but… at the end I was glad. I thought he would be safe… happy." He paused, listening to wind rustling in the trees. "With you I knew he would be. If I had known I- I would never have…."

Holmes broke off, shaking his head. He looked sadly down at the bouquet of flowers in his hand, before laying them carefully beneath the stone slab.

"I don't know what I would have done," he stood to leave. "But I am… so sorry."


	23. 23rd December

_In response to DetectiveAtWork's prompt - __Mrs. Hudson makes a Christmas dinner._

_Thanks again to all of my lovely reviewers! Those of you who review anonymously, I am just as grateful to you as signed reviewers, but obviously can't PM you to say so. _

_Oh and just before I forget…_

_TWO MORE SLEEPS UNTIL CHRISTMAS!_

_He he._

Family Christmas

Everything that could have gone wrong went wrong. The turkey was burnt, the gravy congealed and the stuffing just plain disgusting. Never before had Mrs Hudson made such a despicable excuse of a Christmas dinner.

But then she had never made Christmas dinner on such short notice before either. And most definitely not for this number! Over a dozen scruffy street urchins, or as Holmes preferred to refer to them "The Baker Street Irregulars" were crammed inside 221B, and shovelling down food with alarming ferocity.

Mrs Hudson smiled. It might not be a typical family Christmas, but it would do.


	24. 24th December

_In response to Scarper Gallywest's prompt -_ _What if Watson had a daughter who was born deaf?_

Unaware

"For goodness' sake Lestrade," Holmes hissed angrily. "What is the point of calling me in on this case if I cannot communicate with the chief witness?"

"Well I thought-" I began but was interrupted.

"Couldn't you have found someone who _knows _sign language?"

"Yes I-"

"This is foolish even for your standards Lestrade…"

I sighed in frustration. "Well I had _thought _that Doctor Watson would be with you."

"He's at his practice," Holmes replied. "Why? He doesn't know sign language… does he?"

"Yes," I spoke in the most patronising tone possible. It was such a rare occurrence to be aware of something Holmes was not. "He had to learn when his daughter was born."

"His daughter was deaf?" The dumbstruck expression on Holmes's face was priceless.

"Didn't he tell you?" I asked.

Holmes shook his head. "No. He didn't."

Without another word he left to hail a cab, leaving me with an impossible crime scene and a very confused deaf woman.


	25. 25th December 1 of 5

_In response to DetectiveAtWork's prompt - Holmes is Scrooge and gets a meeting with the three ghosts of Christmas_

_I apologise for the lateness. I think the fact that there are five chapters will explain why I took so long. _

_Please, please, __**please **__review, but PARTICULARLY review if you spot anything wrong. I won't be offended, I will just be glad someone told me so I can put it right._

_Thank you!_

CHAPTER 1

"My dear Watson, Professor Moriarty is not a man who lets the grass grow under his feet."

_Sherlock Holmes_

_THE FINAL PROBLEM_

"Holmes…"

_ I snuggled deeper under a shockingly thin blanket; I really had to remind Mrs Hudson to light more fires during the winter… or at least lend me a quilt. Was it she who was calling out my name?_

"Holmes…"

_ Or Watson?_

_ "_Holmes…"

_ But Watson's voice did not sound like this. Who could it be?_

"Holmes!"

I sat bolt upright and my blanket, which was in fact a ragged coat, slid off me onto the stone floor.

"You are keeping well I see."

I froze at the cold, amused sounding and frightfully familiar voice. Slowly I lifted my head toward it. When I saw the man who spoke I leapt to my feet. "Moriarty!"

The figure in front of me gave a humourless laugh; rattling the semi transparent chains which hung from his wrists and ankles. "You look less than pleased to see me, Mr Holmes."

I spluttered incomprehensibly for a few moments, before finally reaching a logical conclusion. "Of course – I am still dreaming."

"Sadly not," Moriarty sighed. "I am indeed Professor James Moriarty. And I have come with a message. May I sit down?"

"I had no idea that ghosts had need of chairs," I responded. Despite my outward nonchalance, I was more than a little shocked. "And I am sorry to say that I have none."

"No… This is not the most luxurious of places is it?" Moriarty cast his eyes around the bare room disdainfully before lowering himself to the floor. "I expect it is cold as well."

"It will be colder in England," I said with a shrug. My initial fear at seeing the spirit of my old arch-nemesis was now transformed into open curiosity. "Why do you wear those chains?"

"As punishment," Moriarty gave a bitter smile. "These chains are the weight of my sins; and I am forced to wander onward from place to place, dragging them behind me. It is not often I am permitted a rest and I am a little disappointed that you chose such a dismal shelter for yourself."

"I would apologise," I said icily. "But it is hardly my fault. In fact I would say that all blame can be placed squarely on your shoulders."

"On the contrary Holmes," Moriarty pierced me with his ghostly gaze. "It was not I who told you to abandon your friend at the falls."

"Abandon?"

"Or to embark on your frivolous travels across the continent."

"Frivolous?"

"It was also not I, who made you the decision to contact no one but your brother. Indeed, the blame of _that_ decision, lies squarely on _your _shoulders," Moriarty smiled slightly at my outraged expression. "It is down to you, and you alone, that you spend your days in such lonely places as this. Which brings me to my message."

"Get on with it then!" I snarled. How dare he insinuate that this was my fault, any of it? "And then be off with you!"

Unperturbed, he continued; "Tonight you will be visited by three more ghosts. Those of Christmas Past, Present and Future."

"Christmas?" I exclaimed, anger forgotten.

Again, Moriarty smiled. "It has been a long time indeed Holmes, since I last saw you. There was a time when you let nothing, no tiny detail, slip past you. But tonight is Christmas Eve, and you, my friend are entirely alone. Perhaps fate is not as cruel as I had first thought; it seems we have both entered a different way of life. And both, with not a soul beside us."

I trembled with rage at his mocking words. I had before shied away from his spectral form, but now I approached him. "You are right Moriarty; your fate is not cruel. It is deserved! You will remain alone for the rest of eternity and rightly so. Now leave!"

Moriarty's expression remained unchanged. He rose to his feet, chains creaking cacophonously, and stared at me. "I will leave Holmes. But remember; if you do not think through your decisions, for they are _your _decisions, then you may find yourself left to the same fate which I now possess."

"You know _nothing!_" I spat. "Go!"

The sad smile did not leave Moriarty's face as he turned do so. "So long, Mr Holmes…." And with the unpleasant sound of chains being dragged across stone, he departed.


	26. 25th December 2 of 5

_In response to DetectiveAtWork's prompt - Holmes is Scrooge and gets a meeting with the three ghosts of Christmas_

CHAPTER 2

"Her face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual and sympathetic."

_John Watson_

_THE SIGN OF FOUR_

I collapsed to the floor, visibly shaking and with a longing for something warmer than my coat, which lay discarded in a corner of the room. A blanket or quilt I might wrap myself in, to assist in casting an illusion of safety from spirits and ghosts.

Minutes passed and no such beings appeared. I began to wonder if the ghost of Moriarty had in fact been a figment of my imagination and after a few more minutes I was convinced of it. Berating myself for my foolish belief in what must have been a very vivid dream, I went to collect my coat. Laying it across myself, I fell into an uneasy sleep.

I awoke what must have been a short time later; the sky outside my window was still dark and in the neighbouring house I could hear the quiet chiming of a clock. To me at least, it sounded like an echo of Big Ben; of London. But I was not in London any more.

"It is nice to know I have been missed. There are many who would rather forget the past."

I gaped from my position on the floor. "M- Mrs Watson? But… what are you doing here?"

Watson's wife stared down at me. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, as I had never seen it before and her blue eyes shone, even in the darkness. The simple white gown which she wore also exuded a white glow – shining through the night. "My name is not Mary Watson. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. And you are Sherlock Holmes."

Slowly I got to my feet. "If you are not Mrs Watson, then why do you resemble her so closely?"

"I have taken a form you find familiar, so that I might show you the past." She extended a small, pale hand. I regarded it, almost apprehensively. "You have nothing to fear. That which we shall observe is but an echo of that which has already been and gone."

_An echo…_ Her choice of words regarding the past were so close to my thoughts of before. My thoughts of London.

But what she said was true. There was nothing to fear from the past. I hardened my resolve and took her hand in my own. "I am ready, Christmas Past."

And with a jerk of her fingers we were gone from the dingy house in Paris, instead soaring through a spectrum of different shades and colours. Black faded to blue faded to purple faded to pink faded to a lighter blue faded to white which faded back to the light blue. I could do nothing but stare, completely amazed, guided by the pull of the spirit's gentle grip.

All too soon the colours were gone, replaced instead by a dim corridor lined with portraits. I turned to face the Ghost of Christmas Past.

"Where are we? And…" I hesitated. "_When _are we?"

"It is the 25th of December, 1861. And this is-"

Her quiet words were drowned out as a nearby door was flung open by - I could scarcely believe it – _me._

"Leave me alone, Mycroft!" I watched my younger self march down the corridor, and with a jolt I recognised the door to what was once my bedroom.

"My old home…" I breathed and felt the spirit nod beside me.

"Sherlock!" this time it was my older, yet far younger, brother who spoke. "You are overreacting!"

I watched myself turn back to face Mycroft and was shocked to see tears in my young, grey eyes. "They _promised _Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed heavily and shifted his weight to the other foot. I had forgotten how thin he had once been. "I know. But they are busy Sherlock… And they have not forgotten us. They have given orders to all of the staff for a Christmas meal to be prepared, and they have left us our presents. They are just… busy."

"They're _always _busy…" I snorted at my whining. Had I really once sounded like that?

"Come back to my room," Mycroft suggested. Seeing my less than enthusiastic face he added, temptingly. "I still have to give you your present."

"All right. But it had better not be a chess set - you always cheat."

I watched as both myself and Mycroft headed back to his room, Mycroft chuckling. "I do _not _cheat Sherlock; I win."

I stared after them, a hollow feeling having just entered into my chest. "Our parents were not there that Christmas."

The spirit said nothing, just stared at me with Mary Watson's eyes.

"And in January I was informed of their deaths."

Again, nothing other than the force of her pale blue gaze.

"Mycroft knew, didn't he?"

Slowly… the ghost nodded. I took a sharp intake of breath.

"I never realised…"

"Come." There was no pity in her gaze. No expression at all. "It is time we left."

I took her hand, and was again pulled into a different place, this time one which I had no difficulty in recognising; the living room of 221B Baker Street.

It was clearly Christmas; tinsel lined the mantelpiece and there was even a small tree in the corner, dripping with decorations. "The year?" I enquired of the ghost.

"1888."

"And?" I asked. "You are the Ghost of my Christmas Past – where am _I_ this Christmas?"

As way of response she put a finger to her lips and gestured to the door. I could hear two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs.

I should perhaps have been used to strange occurrences by that point, but I could not contain my gasp of surprise when through the door came both Watson and a slightly younger me. The younger me was laughing. Watson was talking.

"-then of course they all stared and I realised I still had lipstick below my ear!" he exclaimed. I chuckled along with my younger self as I recalled the story he had related to me. "There was a terrible silence as I steadily grew redder; and then Mrs Forrester said, "Goodness Doctor Watson. If my doctor were as careful with his examinations as you I rather think I wouldn't mind being ill.""

"Ha ha ha!" I watched myself wipe tears, this time of joy, from my eyes and collapse onto the sofa, shaking with suppressed laughter. "Oh goodness… Altogether _not _the best first meeting then?"

"No," Watson replied, moustache twitching. "It was a _most _successful examination however. Though I never did get around to diagnosing Mary…"

"HA HA HA! Well just so long as you didn't mention that to Mrs Forrester I'm sure it was fine."

"Quite. Now then…."he strode to the tree and pulled out a present. "Merry Christmas Holmes."

"To you too." My former self accepted the present and gestured back to the tree, "Yours is there with the rest. Do you think Mrs Hudson would mind if-?"

_Knock, knock, knock!_

"That will be her now – you can ask her yourself." Watson raised his voice, "And perhaps also ask after the delicious Christmas dinner I can smell cooking downstairs! Come in Mrs Hudson!"

I looked on as our landlady entered, beaming, and carrying a silver platter which held what could only be described as a _magnificent _Christmas dinner. Smiles leapt to the faces of the other two in the room, and I could not help the one which sprang to mine in remembrance of the happy occasion.

"We must go."

"No I- I should like to stay." I was unwilling to tear myself away from this joyous memory.

"Time is short, Sherlock Holmes," Mrs Watson's face remained as expressionless as ever. "We cannot ponder too long on the past – time is short. We must move on."

I could not repress a shudder at the thought that perhaps the double meaning in her words was intentional. Once again she grasped my hand in hers and we were tugged forward in time.

This time no decorations adorned the living room of 221B. No tinsel, no tree…. In the corner of the room I saw myself, hunched over the chemistry table and muttering.

"You know what year it is."

I gave a start and turned to the ghost. Almost cautiously, I nodded. "1889."

She did not answer, as there came a knock upon the door.

"Come in!" I heard myself call imperiously, not looking up from my experiment.

It was a timid Mrs Hudson who entered; this time she carried no Christmas dinner. "Hello Mr Holmes."

"Mrs Hudson."

She watched nervously as I lit a Bunsen burner, face thoughtful and brooding. "Mr Holmes… I can still bring up something to eat…. If you'd like…"

"No thank you Mrs Hudson," my slightly younger self replied. My face was tight; the only emotion it betrayed was that of intense concentration, on the experiment at hand. "Is there anything else?"

Mrs Hudson hesitated. She teetered for a while, on the edge of saying something. Eventually she did speak, "Mr Holmes… you know that Doctor Watson would have been here… if he-"

"I perfectly understand Mrs Hudson," my reply was brusque; harshly so. "He is a married man; he has other demands on his time. Now if that is all..?"

"Yes Mr Holmes." She exited, leaving only the tinkling of vials and the ticking of the clock behind her. I winced at my far too recent actions; had I really treated her so badly?

Meanwhile the other me was continuing his experiment. He stopped only briefly to throw a scrap of paper – a telegram – on the fireplace. I could not see it from my current position, but I could remember well enough the words it held.

Holmes STOP Cannot make Christmas dinner STOP Mary fallen ill STOP Apologies for late notice STOP Will be sure to visit soon STOP Watson FINAL STOP

"Take me away," I turned and thrust my hand at the Ghost of Christmas Past. "I don't want to see any more." The ghost did not move. "I _said _take me away!"

The ghost continued to stare with pale blue eyes. With _those _pale blue eyes. The pale blue eyes of Mrs Mary Watson. All at once I was shaking with rage, just as with the ghost of Moriarty, and I started toward her angrily. "_SAY SOMETHING!_"

She did not, and with a bellow of frustration I raised my arm and brought it crashing down, right across that unchanging face, and across those unchanging eyes. But just at the point I expected to feel the resistance of flesh against flesh – there was nothing. Only empty space. I leapt back with a cry of horror.

_"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes…" _The last I heard from the Ghost of Christmas Past were those words, whispered with the voice of Watson's wife.


	27. 25th December 3 of 5

_In response to DetectiveAtWork's prompt - Holmes is Scrooge and gets a meeting with the three ghosts of Christmas_

CHAPTER 3

"In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner rather than in his words."

_John Watson_

_THE EMPTY HOUSE_

I fell, trembling, to the floor; the floor, I now realised, of my Parisian safe house. I stared down at my arm, repulsed at what I had almost done.

But no… had my blow met its target, it would have struck against the cheek of a ghost, not a woman. And especially not _that _woman. I gulped down a few breaths, still shaking, before walking unsteadily to a window. I opened it, ignoring the blast of chilly air, and listened to the noises of the city.

"Sherlock Holmes!" I jumped at the voice which boomed from behind me. "Come, and know me better man!"

I swivelled around and felt my mouth fall open in shock. "I take it then…. That you are the Ghost of Christmas Present?"

"Indeed!" the ghost laughed and his enormous girth, covered with an enormous green robe, wobbled.

"And I also take it… that you have taken on my brother's appearance so that I might be familiar?"

"Quite so! I have many brothers – over 1800! – but I am afraid to say that you are not among them."

I smiled nervously back at the giant of a ghost, who looked down at me with Mycroft's grey eyes.

"Come," he said. "Touch my robe – I have not much time."

I did as the spirit asked and reached out my hands to the rich green material. As I did so the stone walls of my makeshift residence began to spin, and dissolve. The effect was almost nauseating. I closed my eyes against the movement, and when I next opened them I was shocked to find myself on a frosty London street.

"Why are we here?" I asked the ghost.

"Patience Sherlock. All will become clear soon enough." I looked away, a little unsettled at the use of my Christian name. this ghost already looked like Mycroft. I did not wish for it to take on any other of his mannerisms.

I saw two figures round the corner.

"Cor Wig, it ain't 'alf cold!" one of them said.

"I know Freddie," the other, who I now recognised as my lieutenant of dirty street-urchins Wiggins, replied. "Cud be worse."

"Yer… s'pose…" Frederic, another Irregular, mumbled. He was shivering in his threadbare jacket and I saw many holes in the cloth cap he wore, from which tufts of dirty blonde hair poked. "Maybe we cud go see Doctor Watson!"

At his friend's suggestion, Wiggins looked suddenly uncomfortable. "I dunno Fred… I reckon it's best we leave 'im to 'imself this Christmas. But look," he hastily added as he saw Frederic's face drop. "'Ow's about we go over to Trafalgar Square? I still got enough money to get some chestnuts for us both."

At this the boy's expression brightened and they both departed. I watched their retreating backs, puzzled.

"What did they mean?" I asked the ghost. "What reason does Watson have not to see them?"

"Grief is a strange thing Mr Holmes," the ghost said in Mycroft's slow and ponderous voice. "Particularly for those who are witness to it."

"Grief?" I repeated. "But… surely Watson is not still grieving for me?"

There was a long silence before the ghost answered my question. "When you have lost someone close to your heart, the hole which is left behind where they once were, never truly heals. Now," he gestured to his robe. "We must continue."

I took hold of his robe again, his words giving me more to think about than I would have liked to admit. The street in which we stood slowly dissolved, and I was now thrust into an entirely different scene.

I as in a large hall crammed full of people, all of whom looked a great deal warmer than Wiggins and Frederic had. IN the this crowd of dancing, talking people I could make out several familiar Inspectors. Some kind of formal Christmas-do then, organised by Scotland Yard.

"Inspector Lestrade!"

I realised, a little late, that there was one inspector I had not spotted. I saw him now, standing at the edge of dancing couples beside a woman who was most likely his wife. He muttered something in her ear, before making his way through the throng of people, toward the man who had called him and who, as luck would have it, stood right beside me.

"Good evening, Chief Superintendent," Lestrade greeted him respectfully. His eyes were weary. "Are you having a good time?"

"It would be better," the Superintendent growled. "If I knew that the culprit behind the Molesey Mystery was safely behind bars."

"I- I am working on it sir," Lestrade stammered.

"Working on it!" the Superintendent exclaimed. "Of course you're _working _on it! I don't want it _worked on; _I want it solved!"

"Y- yes sir," Lestrade was looking steadfastly at the floor. "I am… sure I will hit on something soon."

The Chief Superintended sighed. "That's the best I can hope for I suppose, now you don't have your pet detective to help you."

Lestrade stiffened at this. The Superintendent either didn't notice or didn't care, and left.

"Was that the Superintendent?" Lestrade's wife had caught up with him. "What did he want?"

Lestrade released a shaky breath before answering, "To tell me that he doesn't think I can handle the Molesey case."

His wife looked at him pityingly. "I'm sure he's just-"

"He's dead right," Lestrade cut across her. "I cannot solve this case. I cannot solve anything…. I never could. I need Holmes."

His wife frowned. "What you need is to go home and rest. That will help you gain a new perspective on the case."

Lestrade sighed but did not argue, allowing himself to be led away by his wife, who glanced worriedly back at him.

I could hardly believe what I had just seen. Never before had Lestrade seemed so… demoralised, And most certainly never about a case. He was far too tenacious for that, even if his determination was often misplaced. But now… I shook my head sadly. He seemed to posses barely a trace of his old obstinance.

"Will he solve the case?" I asked the Ghost of Christmas Present, who shrugged.

"That is not my place to know. Shall we continue?"

I nodded and grasped at his robe, closing my eyes against the disorientating journey with which I was growing familiar.

When I next opened them I was a little surprised to find myself in Watson's study. I was further surprised to see Watson there, slumped over his desk and snoring, There was a pen in his hand, a pile of prescriptions beneath his cheek and his pocketwatch was open beside them, telling me that it was fast approaching midnight.

"Why the devil is he working on Christmas?"

There was a pause as the ghost considered this. Eventually, he said, "Work is the best antidote to sorrow."

"Sorrow is one thing, but Watson would not spend Christmas alone. Where is his wife?"

"Have you not deduced it yet?"

"What do you..?" my sentence trailed away. I had just noticed something. Watson's study was a mess.

Watson was a military man; impeccable clean and neat. And if, for whatever reason he was not so, whether due to stress or grief, his wife most certainly would have kept his study tidy, and would most certainly have been with him on Christmas night. That she was not suggested she was ill, or otherwise incapacitated. But if that were the case Watson would not be here, he would be at her side. Which meant that Watson's sorrow was not for me.

It was for his wife.

I pivoted on my heel to face the Ghost of Christmas Past.

"Why?" I cried. "How?"

The ghost, however, seemd incapable of answering. He looked at the pocketwatch open by Watson's face and somewhere in the house, a clock began to strike twelve. He gave a smile, which grew wider and wider, ending at last with him tossing back his head and laughing. An icy feeling spread through my stomach as his laugh spread through the room, for this was not Mycroft's amused chuckle but something else entirely.

I covered my ears but it did nothing to help; his laughter rand on, through my ears, through my _skull – _through my very mind. I shut my eyes attempting to block it out, but to no avail.

Then suddenly… it stopped. I opened my eyes. I was no longer in Watson's study, but back on the stone floor – in Paris. I shivered.

After that hellish laughter of before, I found the quiet night almost deafening. But it was not entirely silent.

Next door, a clock chimed midnight.


	28. 25th December 4 of 5

_In response to DetectiveAtWork's prompt - Holmes is Scrooge and gets a meeting with the three ghosts of Christmas_

CHAPTER 4

"You have a grand gift for silence, Watson. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion."

_Sherlock Holmes_

_THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP_

I did not have long to wait for the next ghost to appear. I heard the footsteps ringing out, sharp and clear, against the stone floor and found myself looking into another familiar face. Watson's face.

"I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?"

Slowly, the ghost nodded. It did look remarkably like Watson. All except the eyes. Although they might be the exact same shape and shade as his, they held no emtion. This lack of emotion unnerved me; I was used to reading Watson's expressions like a book.

"You are to show me shadows, not of things that have happened, but which are still to happen? Is that correct?"

Again the ghost gave a careful nod. Although I did not like to admit it, his ghost frightened me than all of the others put together, I took a deep breath. "Then lead on, Spirit."

It grasped my arm in a strong, cold grip and all at once we were back in London. I caught sight of two constables standing on a street corner, shivering in the early morning air.

"-seems a bit harsh… I mean it's just a bit of pick pocketing innit?" one of them said.

The other shrug. "Yeah, well…. Weren't down to me was it? I just saw him nick it… and I don't reckon it were his first time neither."

The first constable sighed. "Yeah… s'pose so…." He rubbed his hands together. "Whatcha you say his name was?"

"I dunno… his friend kept calling him Wig or something..?" the second constable seemed eager to change the subject. "So what are you up to later?"

"Oh you know same old same old…. Missus making the Christmas diner and all that. You?"

Their conversation faded away as I turned back to face the Ghost of Christmas Future. "Wiggins… in prison?" The ghost was silent. "But he is no criminal! Why hasn't someone spoken up for him?"

Still the ghost said nothing. It made no move but to reach out a hand, which I took with trembling fingers, wondering what it would show me next.

"Lestrade!" I watched Gregson run past. "Lestrade!"

It was the same street, but later in the day. Lestrade turned back to face his fellow inspector, who came to a sudden halt. "Yes?"

"Have- have you heard?" Gregson gasped out between heavy breaths.

Lestrade looked puzzled. "Heard what?"

"He's dead."

Lestrade's eyes widened momentarily in shock. "… How?"

"Overdose." The two shared a dark look.

"Terrible thing," Lestrade sighed. "And a terrible shame… Still, at least he's at peace now."

Gregson nodded and fell into step beside Lestrade. I felt the cold hand on my shoulder and found myself instantly in another place.

I was in a graveyard. I turned angrily to the ghost.

"Why have you brought me here?" I demanded. "I know it was I who they spoke of; who do I know who would die from an overdose?"

The ghost remained silent. Slowly it lifted a hand… and pointed to a gravestone. I did not look at it,.

"I need not see my name carved in stone, to know that I die, Spirit!" The hand did not waver. "Why are you showing me this?"

The ghost remained unnaturally still. Clearly Watson's old injuries did nothing to bother this phantom. It would stand there until the end of time if it had to. With a sigh I looked to where the finger pointed – and gasped.

_Doctor John H. Watson_

_1852 – 1896_

_May he rest in peace_

"It- it cannot be! Tell me spirit – are these the shadows of the thing that _will _be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?"

I swivelled around, away from the stone, desperate for an answer. But there was no one there.

"Spirit!" I cried. "Christmas Future!"

Once again, no answer was forthcoming and I dropped to my knees – at the base of another, different gravestone. I looked around in shock, and found that I was in an entirely different churchyard. And judging from the numerous French names which were scattered across the headstones, I was no longer in London.

I stood up but stumbled a little, and was forced to lean against the gravestone I had knelt at before. Looking down, I was not altogether shocked at what I saw.

_Emile Sigerson_

_Unkown – 1895_

_R.I.P_

"This… _cannot _be!" I repeated my early words. "I care little for myself Spirit, but Wiggins… Watson… surely they can be saved? Is it too late?" I was shouting desperately at the wind; I only hoped that it was listening. "I can return! I _will _return! Tomorrow if need be, if I can just… help them."

On these last words my voice broke and I fell once more before my own grave. I do not know what I was doing. A desperation had crept into my heart and a feeling of uttermost impotence. I could do nothing but hope. Hope and pray.

I closed my eyes…And felt a cold hand on my shoulder.

I was no longer kneeling on grass and soil, but stone. I opened my eyes. Early morning sunlight was shining through the still-open window.

"Thank you… "I whispered and went to look outside.


	29. 25th December 5 of 5

_In response to DetectiveAtWork's prompt - Holmes is Scrooge and gets a meeting with the three ghosts of Christmas_

CHAPTER 5

"Education never ends Watson. It is a series of lessons with the greatest for last."

_Sherlock Holmes_

_THE ADVENTURE OF THE RED CIRCLE_

"What's today?" I cried from my window to a passing boy. I had no idea of how much time I had passed among the Ghosts.

"Eh?" he replied.

"What day is it today?"

"Je ne parle pas l'anglais monsieur."

Ah. Yes. I was still in France.

"Never mind!" I yelled. I withdrew from the window, to the confusion of the boy, and hurried out of the door, pulling on my coat as I did so.

I imagine I gave the man in the telegram office something of a fright when I burst in, red-faced and practically skipping for joy.

"Monsieur Sigerson?" he enquired tentatively.

"Merry Christmas!"

"Er… yes. I have a telegram for you."

SIGERSON STOPRONALD ADAIR DEAD STOP CIRCUMSTANCES SUSPICIOUS STOP SUGGEST IMMEDIATE RETURN STOP MH FINAL STOP

I read Mycroft's missive and grinned, before sending one back.

MH STOP AM COMING HOME STOP SH FINAL STOP


	30. 26th December

_In response to Sui Generis Paroxysm's prompt – "One of these days…"_

Not Today

As I grow to know my roommate, I also grow to know the limits of his patience. And I am finding them far beyond anything which I could have expected.

He listens with open enthusiasm as I deduce, waits with an open mind as I concentrate for hours on one problem or another, and follows me into danger with open-ended determination and loyalty.

One of these days he will leave. One of these days I will overestimate the limit of his seemingly infinite patience. One of these days I will go too far and be left friendless.

But not today.


	31. 27th December

_In response to Poseidon – God of the Seas's prompt - Holmes is invited to see the Queen. But will he behave appropriately?_

"Mr Holmes … the country is indebted to you. As am I."

"Thank you Your Majesty."

"Now all that remains is the matter of your reward."

"Reward, Your Majesty?"

"Yes. I would like to bestow upon you, the honour of a knighthood."

"I… I do not know quite what to say..! Other than - no thank you."

"Excuse me?"

"I apologise Your Majesty. But I could not accept this honour, when I know there is a man far more worthy of the title of knight. I would not be here without him. He has helped countless droves of people, myself included."

"Oh? This does indeed sound like a man worthy of a knighthood…"

"Yes. And I am sure that I could convince you of it further, given time and elaboration."

"Then why don't you? You are a retired man Mr Holmes… you have nothing better to do."

"No indeed, Your Majesty. However… he passed away quite recently. And I am under the belief that this honour is not one to be awarded posthumously?"


	32. 28th December

_ In response to Agatha Doyle's prompt - What would happen if either Holmes or Watson got a pet that really annoyed the other?_

"Tiger?"

When Watson returned from his rounds that evening, he was surprised to see a very dishevelled Holmes awaiting him outside the front door to their lodgings. He was covered with scratches.

"Watson! Thank God you have arrived!" Holmes cried in relief upon seeing his friend. "You _have _to help me!"

"Why? What have you done?"

"Nothing!" Holmes replied in indignation. "It was… well…" he hesitated. "I know you won't believe me Watson, but it was the tiger!"

Suddenly, the colour drained from Watson's face."Tiger?"

"Yes! I had just been considering the implications of the positioning of the curtains in the Sholsey case, when I heard a…. well, a _growling _from below. I went downstairs and there it was! A tiger. " His tone turned suddenly pleading, "I've no idea how it got there Watson. You have to believe me!"

"Oh er… I do Holmes. The erm.. the tiger is mine," Watson mumbled.

"Yours?"

"Yes. And er, if you don't mind I'm just going to go and… look after it."

"Watson no!" Holmes attempted in vain to stop his friend. "It will eat you alive!"

Watson laughed. "I have experience with tigers Holmes – believe me."

And Holmes was shocked indeed when, half an hour later, he entered 221B to find the hellcat of before on its back and purring, as Watson rubbed its belly.

"They really are rather pleasant, once you get past all of that scratching and biting business," Holmes commented, after Watson had persuaded him to come over and try for himself.

"Well that's good," Watson replied. "Because we shall be looking after this tiger for several weeks."

This time it was Holmes who turned pale.


	33. 29th December

_In response to Agatha Doyle's prompt - Write about an occasion that makes Holmes cry._

The first time I ever saw Sherlock Holmes cry was actually rather late in our association. I had gone up to Sussex to spend a week with him in his cottage, and was at that moment sat in the living room reading a book whilst he wrote something or other about the behaviour of bees.

There came a knock at the door and he swiftly went to answer it. When he came back he was carrying a telegram. I watched with interest as he opened it,

As he read it however, his face fell.

"What is it Holmes?" he did not respond. "Holmes?"

"It's Mycroft," he whispered, handing it to me. I could deduce what it said from the tears in his eyes.


	34. 30th December

_In response to sagredo's prompt - Watson receives Christmas cards from grateful patients and his readers. What does he do with them?_

Holmes was shocked one day whilst cleaning (nosing around because he was bored) to discover a trunk in Watson's room that was stuffed full of Christmas correspondence. Interested, Holmes picked a few and began to read.

_Deer dokta Wotson,_

_Fanks for seting my leg! It reely hurt but its much beter now. _

_Merry Christmas!_

_Freddie_

_Dear Doctor Watson,_

_Christmas is a time when I can look at my family and feel immensely grateful for everything I have. And everything I've been given. You saved both mine and my daughter's life last month and I want to thank you, and wish you a very merry Christmas, from all of the family!_

_Best wishes,_

_Jane Wilson_

_Dear Mr Watson,_

_Merry Christmas! I am a big fan of your work, and although I know that you killed off your main character, Sherlock Holmes, perhaps you could continue the series looking at another character? Or bring back Sherlock Holmes?_

_Faithfully yours._

_Phillip Smith_

_PS If you keep writing your books, I promise that I will definitely buy them myself, instead of just borrowing from Jimmy like I did before. I asked my mum and she said that that might be the reason you killed off Sherlock Holmes._


	35. 31st December

_In response to sagredo's prompt - Write about a New Year's Eve at 221B which turned out to be more of a party than anyone had planned. _

"Five… Four… Three… Two… One… HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

As the countdown ended, and Big Ben heralded the New Year, several things were going on at once.

Wiggins and the rest of the Irregulars were busy swearing in the street, whilst above them their probably-illegal fireworks burst into colourful explosions.

Watson and Mary were sharing their first New Year's kiss.

The inspectors from Scotland Yard were debating on their resolutions for that year.

Mycroft was following Mrs Hudson as she handed out food to everybody.

And Holmes watched, wondering when exactly it was that he had gained such a huge family.

_Wow. So there it is. It's over._

_So… I would like to say a big huge THANK YOU to all those who took part in this. It has been amazing to read everybody's responses._

_I would also like to say that hopefully there will be another of these next year. YAY!_

_Anyone wanting to get involved just drop me a PM or whatever.  
>Also, in case anyone's interested I just spent <em>_**my **__New Year's Eve watching the entire series 1 of Downton Abbey before counting down and watching fireworks from our window._

_And so far the New Year has been spent writing and uploading Holmes fics._

_It is now 7:00am. I have not slept._

_And in 13 hour and 10 minutes – NEW SHERLOCK!_

_HAPPY 2012 EVERYBODY!_


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